Guardian Angel
by Righteous Llama
Summary: When Erik falls ill after Christine's departure, it's the Girys that take him in and help him regain strength. M/E Rated T, just in case.
1. Broken

Yes, it's another one of those phanfics--the kind where Meg helps Erik find redemption after the Christine Caper. Sorry for the shortness of the first chapter, but...i don't know. Maybe it's more of a prologue, actually.

I apologize for my rambling. **I don't own PotO. Short and sweet.**

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Chapter 1 - Broken

Mass chaos. Complete hysteria. Great, roaring flames engulfing the beautiful building as terrified Opera-goers spill out of every entrance (or exit, as it were) in a blind rush for escape from the horrors of that night.

Such was the atmosphere at the Opera Populaire following the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_, a masterwork composed by the legendary Phantom of the Opera himself. But the Phantom was not triumphant, as the title of his opera would suggest. Even now, a throng of furious stagehands and policemen were storming down the dark tunnels to the lair of the Phantom. They carried torches and guns, brandishing them and crying out with murderous intent. Several of the men were hit by falling stones from the ceiling, and fell back into the waist-deep, stagnant water, forgotten in the mayhem.

Among the mob was a thin, blonde girl, who carried no weapon and had no intention to kill, but was just as determined as the rest to reach their destination.

And when they did, they were greeted with an ominous, gloomy silence. No sign of a struggle but the few music stands that had been knocked over. The men were surprised. The cave was well-furnished, if not to their specific tastes. Whoever had lived here hadn't been poor, that was certain.

A few policemen ventured cautiously through the open gateway, fearing for an ambush of some sort. But the girl walked forward boldly, splashing through the water and up to the bank. She glanced around, looking for that telltale shadow, the sound of footsteps—anything to verify her assurance that the Opera Ghost was still there.

She heard a sharp intake of breath, as though in a sob. The girl leaped up a few steps and through a doorway, following the sound. But the room she entered was seemingly empty, much to her disappointment.

A glint of white caught her eye as she turned to leave: a mask, lying on a dark, velvet stool. The girl cradled it in her hands. This was the proof she had been looking for. The Phantom wouldn't leave his mask behind.

She tucked the mask into her belt and went out. "He's not here," she told the mob. They grumbled a bit, wanting to look for themselves, but the girl was insistent. Finally, the group turned and started back the way they had come. The blonde girl followed at the rear, glancing over her shoulder every so often until the lair was out of sight.

**- - -**

Later that night, two figures stood conversing quietly in one of the labyrinth tunnels that led to the Opera Ghost's cave. They eventually agreed on something. The taller of the two continued into the darkness.

"Be careful, Meg!" the other called softly. She had a feminine voice, and a thick French accent.

The thin, blonde girl nodded in response and kept going. When she arrived once again to the lair, she produced the mask from her belt and began searching around the cave.

All of a sudden she sensed a strong presence behind her. Meg whirled around, and there he was: tall, well-built, dressed similarly to her with a loose white shirt and black pants, and covering the right side of his face with one hand. The Phantom of the Opera.

He looked pale and weary, and his expression was more or less void of opinion. Meg noticed that his eyes were bright—too bright. He was sick, she realized with some surprise.

"Meg…" he whispered, her name sounding strange coming from his voice. Meg started to hand him the mask, when suddenly, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed on top of her, unconscious.

She managed to catch him before falling to the ground. He wasn't nearly as heavy as she expected; of course, that was probably due to the fact that he rarely ate, only when absolutely necessary. Meg shifted his position so his arm was around her shoulders and it was easier to support him. Still, it would be difficult to carry him all the way back to the surface, even with her companion's help.

She pressed a hand to his face, and recoiled immediately: he was hot, and burning up by the minute. The situation wasn't looking good. And yet, somehow Meg was able to support the unconscious man as far as to where Antoinette Giry stood waiting in the shadows. The two women carried the Phantom to the surface, flagged down a cab, and presently arrived at a small flat near a park. The driver eyed them suspiciously, but said nothing, and drove off into the night.

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Oh no, our dear Erik is ill! Read&Review plz! (Also, I need some sort of period-appropriate excuse to get Mme. Giry out of the house for a month or so, leaving Meg & Erik to take care of themselves. Why, you ask? You'll see when the time comes. But if you have any ideas, please say so!)


	2. Announcement

Yay, chapter 2! And it's longer this time! Even though the chapter title is really suckish. I'll probably end up changing it later, but it was the best I could come up with whilst my dad and I were watching 24 and my mom was yelling at me to get off the laptop.

Also, thanks for the reviews and ideas! I honestly didn't think people would respond to that. I really appreciate it, though!

And now--onto the chapter!

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Chapter 2 – Announcement

Erik woke briefly the next day during late afternoon and was perplexed to find himself wrapped in blankets on a comfortable sofa as the pale sun tried unsuccessfully to shine through drawn curtains on the other side of the room. He heard quiet conversation coming from the adjoining room, and heard his name mentioned more than once, but found it hard to focus. His head throbbed painfully, his throat was parched, and his stomach—

Erik leaned over suddenly and retched into a relatively small, wooden bucket beside the sofa. A blonde girl rushed into the room, unfazed by the vomit, and pressed a cold washcloth to his burning forehead.

Meg waited patiently until he was finished, stroked his cheek gently, and left to go wash out the bucket as Erik collapsed back onto his pillows, exhausted and covered in a cold sweat. It never occurred to him that his face was completely exposed.

For the next four days, Erik drifted between phases of troubled sleep and vague, delusional awareness. Sometimes he awoke to a hallucination of Christine, kneeling at his side, smiling tenderly. He would try to reach out to her, but she vanished into thin air. Then he would lean over and heave into the bucket, and fall back into a restless, dreamless slumber. This happened several times a day; and always, Meg would appear with a cold washcloth, and hold his hand or caress his face comfortingly, though she was only an obscure presence to Erik.

Then, in the evening of the fifth day, Erik woke completely for the first time since being found by Meg that night of the disaster at the Opera house. The throbbing in his skull was more of a dull ache now, and most of the nausea had left him. He still felt very weak and rather unfocused, but sat up against the pillows nonetheless so as to observe his surroundings better.

It was a small room, with pale blue walls and a large window through which the setting sun cast an orangish glow. A tall bookshelf and a wooden desk were against one wall, and a few paintings and portraits of individuals who Erik supposed were relations to the Girys adorned another. And, sitting in a small wooden chair a few feet away, was Meg Giry, reading a thick hardcover. Erik was struck by the poise and grace she carried even while doing this simple activity, with her back straight and legs crossed.

Meg looked up at the rustle of sheets, automatically glancing over to where Erik lay on the sofa. For a moment she wondered, as he took in his surroundings, if he was still feverish; then he turned his gaze on her, and she saw that his eyes weren't vacant as they had been. Meg put down the book and went to feel his forehead, smiling warmly.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

Erik withdrew slightly from her touch, but didn't resist. "Miserable," he answered dejectedly.

Meg sighed, and decided to rephrase the question. "Are…are you still nauseous?" she tried again.

He shook his head. "No, but my head aches a bit, and…" Erik considered admitting that he felt weak.

"Yes?" Meg pressed.

Erik shook his head again. "Nothing. Just a headache."

But Meg knew what he meant anyway. She gently eased him back into his blankets, murmuring, "Go back to sleep. We'll talk when you have more strength."

Erik refused to have any of that, instead propping himself up on an elbow and turning to face the girl better. She was sitting in the chair again and had just picked up the book when she noticed him staring. "Fine," Meg sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"How long has it been?" Erik began.

"Almost a week."

"Where is Antoinette?"

"Out shopping."

"What—" It suddenly occurred to him that there was no mask on his face, and the deformity was completely exposed. With a snarl of rage Erik tore back the blankets and leapt to his feet as one hand flew to cover his source of shame. He swayed slightly, having not yet reached his full strength. Meg rose and tried to help steady him, but was shoved roughly away.

"_Why?!_" cried Erik, rounding on the girl who stood cowering a few yards away. "Was I a fool to think you had any respect for me? But how could you respect a man with such a gruesome imperfection!"

At that, Meg straightened to her full height (which wasn't much, considering how tall Erik was) and said defiantly, "I'm sorry you think that, _sir_, because we Girys aren't so shallow that we judge people solely on their appearance!" She walked over to the bookshelf, seized the mask which was resting on the top, and brazenly thrust it at Erik, who was a bit taken aback by her outburst: he had known Meg all those years to be a more or less quiet, reserved girl. He took the mask slowly and, after a glance at Meg's firm expression, fitted it upon his face.

"Now," she continued in the same impudent tone, "if you refuse to rest, as you should if you wish to regain your strength faster, you can go and bathe while I prepare dinner." She pointed Erik in the direction of the washroom, then went off to the kitchen.

Erik was bemused. In his experience, it was rather uncharacteristic of Meg to take control like that. Though, come to think of it, he hadn't taken her much into consideration in the past few years: he'd been too focused on Christine to pay much attention to the little blonde dancer. Still, he supposed she had some reason to be a little impertinent. In hindsight, he had been a bit ungrateful. Meg had saved him in a way, after all. She'd come looking when no one else had.

- - -

Antoinette Giry returned about twenty minutes later, carrying a few bags of food from the market. Erik had finished washing himself, and was sulking in the living room with dripping hair and a gloomy aura. Meg was setting the table for three (Erik tried to convince her to let him eat alone in the living room, but the girl had been unyielding).

"Does he still have a fever?" Antoinette asked her daughter.

Meg nodded. "Yes, but it's receded."

Mme. Giry glanced at Erik again, who was slouched on a chair with his head in his hands, and said quietly, "Well, his negative attitude isn't doing much to improve the circumstances."

"Quite," Meg replied sharply.

Dinner that evening was quiet and uneventful. Erik responded to the Girys' questions with either a shrug or a short, one-word answer. After a few minutes of fruitless exchange, Meg and Antoinette ignored him completely, which seemed to have no effect on the brooding man whatsoever.

"I spoke with James at the market this afternoon," remarked Mme. Giry at one point.

"James DeCloux? The dancer?" Meg asked.

"Yes," Antoinette replied. "He inquired after you."

"Oh." Meg blushed and looked like she wanted to say more, but instead returned to her soup.

Erik held back a grimace. He knew of James DeCloux, and was not fond of him in the least. His ego was far too large, in Erik's opinion. Secretly, he wondered if Meg thought so too, but he said nothing.

At the end of the meal, before Meg got to work clearing the table, Antoinette cleared her throat importantly and folded her hands in her lap. Meg and Erik looked up respectfully.

"As you know," she began, addressing Meg only, "the ballerinas and other dancers are currently staying at a temporary boarding house until the Opera house is restored. Until now, the stage manager and choir master have been looking after them in my stead. But now that Erik is healthier, I'm going to take up the post."

Her words were met with silence as Meg and Erik contemplated what this arrangement would mean for them. _Alone in a flat, with only each other for company—_

"I will come back on Sundays to visit, of course," Antoinette continued, "but otherwise, you'll have to care for yourselves. I trust you two can handle the responsibility?"

They nodded half-heartedly.

"Good." Mme. Giry rose and left the room, leaving her daughter and the former Phantom staring awkwardly into their soup, refusing to meet each other's eyes. Finally, Meg stood and said, "I suppose I'll start clearing up now," and got to it silently.

Erik followed Mme. Giry's example and went off to the living room once again, where he selected a thick hardcover from the bookshelf and read until his fatigue got the better of him and he fell into deep sleep that lasted well into the next day.

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If you're wondering exactly how and why Erik got sick in the first place, and how he recovered so...speedily, don't fret: 'twill all be explained in the next chapter. And M. DeCloux will also make an appearance at some point...

(dun dun duuuuun...)


End file.
